The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
by The Duchessina
Summary: A series of oneshots about the infamous Black Family. /Because you know, in the bottom of your heart, that someone deserves to be free from this family. / Chapter 8 -- Alphard.
1. Always Pure

**A/N: The Black Family has a history we need to know more about. So I've decided to write a series of one shots on the entire Black Family. And first is Regulus, Sirius' brother. This is set before the books, spanning over when Regulus was ten years old to when he learns about the Death Eaters (about sixteen.) I tried to be as accurate as possible with the timing of things, such as Andromeda's marriage, Sirius running away, and Voldemort's rise in power. **

**"Always Pure" is the Black Family's motto, translated from** **French (Toujours Pur.)**

**Just for reference: Bella is Bellatrix; Cissy is Narcissa; Ann is Andromeda. **

**Disclaimer: I do wish Regulus was mine, but alas, he, and all other characters in this fic, belong to the genius JKR.**

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_Regulus Arcturus Black_

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Always Pure

You were never sure whether to despise her or to adore her. Sirius had never like your cousin; he snarled when she was in the room, and the words he had said about her later, in the dark of the night, were scathing. His hatred of her, you could never understand—did she not always come bearing gifts for the two of you? Did she not smile charmingly, and wasn't she graceful, and captivating, and the very embodiment of what Mother said a woman should be? You didn't argue with him though. He was always the more articulate of the two of you, so why bother? If you had said anything, he would have been angry, and your brother was, in those innocent days of childhood, your best friend. He was older, wiser, you thought. So you listened, because you respected him; you trusted him. Even though he was little over a year older than you, he seemed to have that confidence and skills that you lacked. And, to your great relief, he didn't even care that your parents favored you over him.

But over time, you gained your own opinions. You changed. Sirius would have called it cowardice. You called it reality.

Bella, your eldest cousin. Beautiful Bella. She was a goddess; you had worshiped at her feet when Sirius was gone. While you were still a child, she was a woman who had seen the world, and knew of its wonders and horrors—something that Sirius had no knowledge of. It intrigued you, these rare and new ideas. You hungered for more.

And Cissy—you could never forget Cissy in Bella's presence. Despite Ann's seniority, Cissy held the power after Bella. But they couldn't have been more different: where Bella was full of surprises, Cissy was predictable. Where Bella was serious and sometimes grim, Cissy's laugh filled the house. Where Bella bore the striking features of the Blacks, with her dark hair and eyes, Cissy was as fair as a fairy.

And you knew Cissy hated it. You could see it in her eyes—she was intelligent, and against her desperate wishes for power, in this family, you had to act and look the part. Cissy was a light, happy girl—Bella was a dark, frightening witch, who looked as if she should be an evil witch from the medieval era. The black robes she wore throughout the year, and the dark lines under her eyes added to the image.

It fascinated and horrified you.

Uncle Cygnus's middle daughter, Ann, was Sirius' favorite. You never said anything about it, for you couldn't comprehend why he chose the oddest of your Uncle's family to befriend. You knew, instinctively, that to rise in the family, you would have to ally yourself with the most powerful of the next generation: clearly Bella.

One incident stood out in your mind. It was Christmas Eve, the last one with Ann, and all the Blacks in the country had come. You'd just finished helping your mother clean off the large table in the formal dining room. Sirius had said, in the middle of the meal, that all the green decorations made him sick. Mother had gritted her teeth, but forced a smile onto her face. Still keeping her composure, she had turned to you, and asked in a slightly strained voice if you were excited to go to Hogwarts next year. Recognizing that you were needed to divert a potentially violent argument, you complied with your mother's silent pleas, and spoke loudly of your new robes.

Bella had turned her head, and grinned at you. The smirk seemed feral, almost, and even at that age, you'd known that Bella was not one to be messed with.

Mother had still been complaining of Sirius' lack of respect as she flicked her wand when you heard a loud bang. Mother, exasperated, had told you to go and see what all the noise was. Obedient as always, you wandered off in search of your brother, for he alone could be responsible.

In the parlour, however, you found a very different scene than you had expected.

Bella had her long, pale fingers around Ann's throat, and Cissy's wand was out, pointing its deadly end at her sister's heart. It must have been serious, because Cissy wasn't even allowed to use magic outside of school yet.

And you heard such strange words coming out of Bella and Cissy's mouths. It was about something over your head; the strange, exotic words they used sounded unusual in your mouth when you tried them out later.

_The Dark Lord. Death Eaters. Blood-traitors._

Others were not so foreign, but still they sounded odd from Cissy, whose voice was like the angels. Right then, she sounded like the Devil.

_Mudblood, muggle-lover._

These were awful things, you knew: Mother had always warned you of those who tried to steal the magic from the purebloods who deserved it.

But why would Ann be associating with them? She was a Black—practically royalty.

Still, there were those other words, the ones you didn't understand. You wondered at their meaning, but when you brought them up to Sirius he yelled at you, telling you the words were nothing, and where did you hear them?

It was after that you decided Sirius was not to be trusted. You must use your own cunning. Then Ann married a muggle. Your mother screamed when she heard the news. She grabbed a candle, cursing Ann's name. Your mother raced over to the family tree, and you saw your cousin's name erased from the wall. Ann was no more—she had never existed.

You asked Bella when you would see Ann again.

"Never," she replied, "There never was an Andromeda. I have only one sister." You never did see Ann again.

Three years later, after Sirius ran away, and he was burned off the family tree as well, you snuck into your mother's things, to find out what you can. Bella caught you at it.

Looking surprised, she asked you what you were doing.

"I want to learn," you replied. Bella smiled. "What do you want to learn?" she asked.

"Dark magic," you whispered. Bella offered to help you. And she became your queen. You listened to her, you took her advice, you did as she bid. You studied with her, you heard stories of a man, called the Dark Lord, who would help purebloods. She said you would be helping your family, and the entire wizarding world. You begged her to teach you everything. You pleaded with her to make you one of _them_. You had seen the Mark, and you ached to be in this group. Sirius, you knew, was a traitor—he was a Gryffindor, and he didn't care if you died. He hated you when he saw you with Bella. So you hated him back.

And that's when you knew you were in way too deep.

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**The next chapter will be Walburga Black, Sirius and Regulus' mother.**

**And reviews are always appreciated!**


	2. House of My Fathers

**A/N: Second chapter! I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I couldn't quite fix it, because I wasn't quite sure what seemed off. Also, this one felt a little sort, but that might just be me. Either way, I hope you enjoy! **

**Oh, and I found out from the Harry Potter Lexicon that Walburga's maiden name was "Black," so apparently that's why she referred to Grimmauld Place as "house of my fathers." (Or so says the HP Lexicon.)**

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_Walburga_ _Black née Black_

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House of My Fathers

The room stank of death, although the woman within it had yet to pass from this life to the next. Her only companion was a small, wrinkly creature that relentlessly paced the room, never speaking, just watching, waiting. It would regard its mistress with wide, doleful eyes, beseeching her to say something, anything, though the woman refused its silent pleas. It wrung its hands, and clawed its face, but upheld the sacred silence it was forced to keep. Every few hours, the creature would leave, and bring her food or water. To the casual observer, it might be bitter, doing these ineffective things for the dying woman, but it was much more than a simple death watch.

This vigil, held around-the-clock since the Healers had declared her a lost case, was for her will. The house, her money, the heirlooms—everything was, as of the 25th of August, in the year of 1985, left to the mistress's dead son—a young man who had passed on six years before in a tragic accident. Kreacher had assumed that, since Mistress's eldest boy had long since been disowned, and was now serving a life sentence in Azkaban prison, Mistress would change her will—perhaps giving Kreacher and the rest of it to those lovely girls, Misses Bella and Cissy. If Kreacher could no longer serve Mistress, he _must _stay in the Black family and serve another _worthy _member of the Noble and Most Ancient House.

It was only right. Kreacher had served Mistress faithfully; he loved her, and would die rather than see her in the pain she was now experiencing. For generations, Kreacher was devoted to the Black family. He was a good house-elf. He longed to do his duty.

But it was not to be. Kreacher had known, the instant Mistress became ill, that she would not leave her precious items to her brother's girls. In truth, Kreacher knew even before that there was no chance of him going to any other Black than Mistress's own children.

And the house itself—for years, considered the stronghold of the entire Black family—that, above all, must be kept safe. Fortified by the Mistress' dead husband, it was essential to the revival of a family twice divided—by Mistress' niece, and then by her own son.

Kreacher shivered as the portrait of Mistress shrieked. The last time Mistress had regained consciousness, she had made that portrait. It said what she would; and it also haunted the house, screaming at the members of the Black family as they passed. But only the unworthy ones. Only the filth.

The Mistress had whispered to Kreacher, after the screams had driven her family away, that he was to mantain her image. He must never let it die, for it would purge the halls of her house, keeping it clean of any and all worthless ones. Kreacher swore to do as she said, but that night he cried himself to sleep. How would he survive without his Mistress? How would he bear to watch her fade from memory, as so many other Black women had?

And so, there he was, a lone house-elf, waiting for his Mistress to tell him who would be his new master. He waited in self-taught silence, nervously twisting his hands in his dirty pillowcase.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour. Kreacher whimpered softly.

It struck thrice more before Kreacher realized the time. Midnight. The time of magic.

"Mistress?" he ventured softly, his large bat-like ears quivering with fear and distress. "Mistress?"

"Begone from the house of my fathers!" screamed Walburga, "Half-blood filth! My son has no right!"

Kreacher cringed away from her fury. Mistress had been reliving her worst moments for days, and it ate her her mind, seeing her failures: one son dead, another a blood traitor and criminal. Her keening echoed throughout the house, bouncing off the walls. The noise could be deafening. It had been a month since any family member had seen her. Her remaining loyal brother had died the year of her son and her husband. The distant relatives who waited anxiously for her will were not close the the Mistress; rather, they were of the Black family, and so they kept their own small watch. They did not care if Mistress died; they cared for the will. As it had always been, Kreacher knew, in the Black family: the next leader, the next matriarch. The new power.

"Mistress, I is needing to reminding you," Kreacher mumbled, "Your will, Mistress. You's needs to change it, Mistress."

"How—dare—you!" Walburga cried. "How—dare—you,—you—rat! This house—_my house_—by rights belongs to my sons! Sirius, my dear, dear, darling Sirius, my eldest, my child, my boy, my son! He is your Master, and don't you for—" Walburga gasped, and her eyes widened, and Kreacher was sure in that moment she would die, and he would be left to her son's mercy—

And he remembered Sirius Black—may his muggle-loving, blood traitor soul rot in Hell—Kreacher remembered that he was rotting away already, in Azkaban. Kreacher would never serve Mistress's eldest son.

"Perhaps—" came the sudden whisper, softly now, more gentle; quite a contrast from the Mistress in life. With her illness, the Mistress' moods changed rapidly and frequently, but during her prime years, she was consistent and a solid figure in the family. It was devastating to watch this change in Kreacher's beloved Mistress.

"Mistress can't!" The words were out of his mouth before Kreacher could stop them. Pain pierced his heart—Kreacher loved Mistress, and under normal circumstances, he would never have the audacity to tell her what she could and could not do.

"I can! Sirius will have this house!" A wand waved, and the will beside her bed changed. Kreacher saw Regulus' name vanish, and in its place a new name appeared, in the spidery writing that Mistress was know for, and Kreacher's fate was sealed—

_Sirius Black_

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**And now review!**


	3. Rebel Angel

**A/N: I came up with this idea because of a case of writer's block for another one of my stories (**_Saving Grace _**for the "Twilight" fandom. If you're a Twilight fan, go check it out.) **

**There's really not an explaination for this title. **

**Just for reference: Andromeda's last name is Black here because at the time of this fic, she is not married to Ted Tonks.**

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_Andromeda Black_

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Rebel Angel

You hate breaking the rules, but tonight, you cannot help it. There is so much pain and fear and dread, you need to be away from the noise of the common room, away from your friends.

You do not need to worry about your sisters. They are disgusted at you; they wouldn't acknowledge your presence if their lives depended on it.

So you walk the halls alone, terrified but determined not to be caught. You will not be the disgrace again.

But Hogwarts is not like home. You do not know where all the good hiding spots were; you can't walk the place blindfolded. You don't even know where the house elves lived, so you could steal some food in the wee hours of the morning.

Anyway, it is not morning. At least, not yet. You had heard the last tolling of the clocks; midnight is still an hour away.

You creep down the corridor, listening for any sounds that would indicate another in your late-night stroll. You do not want to be caught. Not tonight. Appealing to any entity aware, you beg to go through the halls unnoticed. Just this once. For tonight.

You push back raven hair—your family's trademark—and your breathing quickens. You step slowly onto the staircase leading to the bottom floor.

"Please be good," you whisper, trying to appease the staircase, "Please?"

The stairs either like you, or tonight's your lucky night.

You pray for the latter.

If you are to survive this night, you'll need all the luck you can get. If your sisters ever found who you are meeting—

No, you will not think of that. They will never know. They can't.

You pass the corridor that goes to the dungeons. You shiver as the cold air rises to meet you. You press on, telling yourself a Black fears nothing.

It's easier to believe when your father says that while you are in a nice, warm bed, rather than now, in the damp air of Hogwarts Castle.

When you finally make it to the door that leads outside, you pause. Your heart is beating so fast—is there someone watching? Are they following you?

You shake your head. You are being paranoid. No one cares for the third Black daughter, a nobody. And you are only a first-year. There are always bigger fish to fry.

Confident that there are no others, you pad out the door, into the dark night.

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It's peaceful, quiet. You love this: the silence of nature, the utter _one_-ness of everything.

"Hello, Andromeda," a voice whispers behind you, "I didn't know if you would make it."

You will always make it. You want tell him that, but nervousness closes your throat. You try to smile, but the chill of October stops you. He sees, and hands you his cloak.

You huddle in its warmth, thinking of your bed in your dorm, or even of the bed at home waiting for you. You think of its dark green walls, and the emblem mounted behind your bed. When you were younger, it frightened you, the two greyhounds on either side of the sword. You begged your mother to take it away; she refused, angrily telling you it was your legacy. You vowed to yourself to get rid of it.

Nothing came of that vow.

You force your mind back to the present. He is still staring at you, waiting patiently, with a small half grin on his lips.

"Ready?" he asks softly, holding out his hand. You hesitate, glancing from his face to his offered hand before accepting it. You place your smaller fingers in his grip, and gently he pulls you along after him.

"I'm glad you came," he admits, his eyes staying on you. "I was worried."

When you don't answer, he stops. "Andromeda?"

"I—" Why can't you say anything? You risked your family's anger, and being caught, to meet with him. But you can't think of anything to say. He is older, smarter, kinder—why did he choose to talk to you?

He seems to understand. "You don't have to say anything," he assures you. "All you have to do it watch."

You hate surprises almost as much as you hate breaking the rules. You can't imagine what he wants to show you in the middle of the night, but you can't pass it up. When he had passed you that note yesterday in the library, you hadn't thought of what it meant, except that he wanted to spent time with you. After hours. Outside.

You must be stupider than even your sisters think.

But you follow, docile, as he continues his trek across the grounds. Every few moments, he asks a question of you—he doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't receive one—or says a kind word, or once again convinces you this will be worth it.

His smile is wonderful, you think. You could watch him all day. With his fair hair, he is a stark contrast to you. But looking at your entwined hands with the small light of the stars, you realize his skin is the same pale color of yours. You giggle.

"What is it?" he says quietly.

You manage to speak. "Nothing," you whisper back. Your face is so close to his you can see yourself reflected in his blue eyes. You gasp, which moves your face even closer. He has stopped walking, and you notice his hand did not let go of yours.

"Andromeda," he begins, his voice soft and sweet, and everything a voice should be.

You sense him leaning forward, and you feel yourself inching closer as well. You can smell his unique flavor; you feel his grip on your hand tighten.

He swears suddenly. He gives you a sad look, and says, "If we don't hurry, we'll miss it." Disappointment colors his tone. You can't figure out if its for not kissing you, or if he's worried that you'll miss whatever it is.

"Come on," he urges, and pulls you with him again. You try to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. His very nearness is enough to make you swoon. You hear water within a minute.

He has brought you to the lake.

Excitedly, he points to the sky. "See that star right there?" he asks, showing you a little smudge in the sky. "The little one, right there?"

"Yes?" You aren't sure what is so great about this star, but you try to share his enthusiasm.

"That's the galaxy Andromeda."

You turn to him with wide eyes. It is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you.

That night, you share your very first kiss under your very own galaxy.

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**The boy can be Ted Tonks, or someone else.**

**As always, review!**


	4. Secret Keeper

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I really wasn't sure which family member to do next, but when I looked at Andromeda's chapter, I was like "I should do Narcissa next!" **

**In this fic, I'm going on the assumption that pure-bloods have arranged marriages, which could be entirely possible.**

**Since I'm not naming the chapters after the people, I decided to put up a guide in my profile. So if I know which family member I'm going to do next, I'll add it to the guide before I post.**

**Read and review!**

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_Narcissa Black_

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Secret-Keeper

You were never good enough.

Never good enough for your sister. Never good enough for your father. Never good enough for your grandfather.

You refused to believe that you were good enough for yourself.

You would endure those god-awful meetings where both your father and his father would criticize and yell and cure. You thought you deserved it. After Grandfather Black had left, you would climb into your soft bed and cry. You were intelligent enough to muffle your tears, and not let your father know of these self-pitying times. You diligently let the soaked pillows dry out on the terrace, away from the prying eyes of the loyal house-elves that would tell on you without a second thought. They cared more for your father than you did. After one incident when he found you crying and beat you severely, you realized the necessity of keeping secrets.

You were always the best secret keeper.

After all, no one ever knew that every Thursday, Bella would sneak out of the house and meet with her friends. You knew what she did, and how it was against Wizarding law, but you never told. Partly because keeping the secret kept you in Bella's confidence, and partly because you feared that your father would be more proud of the terrible things Bella did than the fact that you told. With Cygnus Black, you could never be too careful. His moods changed faster than lightning, and you wouldn't know if you would be on the wrong side of his anger until it was much too late. You couldn't afford his anger. It wasn't worth it, especially with Bella's gratitude, shown in the appraising looks she gave.

And no one found out from you that Ann was seeing a muggle. You kept that secret, not out of any love or loyalty to your sister, but because you feared for her life. After news like that, your father would probably drink himself to oblivion, then, while still in the throes of fire-whiskey induced rage, he could kill her. And you could not stand the thought of being responsible for a death, even if it was to a traitor. Even if it was to your sister.

And you told no one of Lucius Malfoy.

He was your very own secret; he was _yours _and though his "caring" was merely a milder version of your father's, you were drawn to it. Lucius held the same self-righteous principals that both your father and his father held, but he never struck you. He might scream, and curse, but he never touched you. And for that you were grateful. You knew you must marry a pure-blood, and one that was not like your father would suffice. You were no romantic; you had no visions of moonlit picnics, or loving courtships. You knew that you would marry for the advancement of the family, and for the pure blood that flowed through your veins.

You might have no choice in the matter. And you knew this.

So you might hope for someone like Lucius. He would tolerate you, and you would not have to do much to please him. It might be a marriage of convenience, but you might be spared worse.

But what you really wanted—and could never hope for—was someone to love you unconditionally. One who loved you for you, and even if you couldn't be good enough for yourself, you hoped that one day you would be good enough for someone. Someone who might not care.

In the darkest corners of your heart, the ones that would never see the light of day for fear of the hope crumbling, you hoped for a child. A child would not condemn your every move. Your own baby would not judge you, even in your worst moments. A child would not disapprove of anything you did. It would love you more than anyone had ever loved you.

You could never voice such a hope aloud; your father would sneer, and your sister would taunt, and your grandfather would shake his head in disgust.

You wanted what Ann had. Without going against your family's wishes, you could never have what your sister owned: a loving husband, a beautiful child. You though of what Ann had given up in exchange for these precious things, and you wondered if eternal banishment from the Black family would be so awful, after all. Ann had everything that you ached for. She, the one who betrayed you all, had the best things in the world.

Life must hate you.

You wanted to forgive Ann her sins, if only for the chance to find out how she had obtained these things. You needed to know the secret; who could keep better secrets than you? But you could not. Your heart had hardened against your baby sister, and nothing good could ever come of contact with her. A berating at best, a beating at worst. And yet at the same time, you wanted _her _forgiveness. You were ashamed of your previous actions against your sister, however deserved they might have been.

Another secret that would never be told.

You didn't think that Bella would take advantage of your secret keeping. You didn't think that she would use you.

You were wrong.

She knew you could be trusted, and you hated the very thought.

Somehow, Bella had found out about Lucius. And she used your secret against you.

For years, you were bond to your sister in the most horrible way. You bent to her will, and she was queen. Everything she said was law. You respected her, and hated her at the same time.

You became a real Secret-Keeper the year you turned twenty. Bella had pulled you out of your room, and into a dark corner of the large mansion. She sat you down and cast the spell.

You never kept a secret after that night.

You couldn't bear to.

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**I'm not sure who to do next. I'm a little hesitant to do Sirius, because he is very over-done. I've written a one-shot about Bellatrix, but that one has a very different feel than this fic, so I might do her. I could also do a chapter on Sirius' dad, or Narcissa's dad. Review and tell me who you want!**


	5. Loyalty

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long. But now I'm back and I think I'll be updating this series much more frequently. **

**So this is another Bella fic (the other one isn't part of this series; it's called _The Amazon Star_ and you can get to it through my profile.) It's set while she's in Azkaban, during Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts. I always thought that Bella's fierce loyalty was a little creepy and obessive. It's a very interesting relationship. **

**Again, if you want to see a Table of Contents for this story, I have a Guide To "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black" in my profile that has the chapters and their respective Black Family members.**

**Read and review!**

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_Bellatrix Lestrange_

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Loyalty

The world has not ended.

It did not stop spinning; indeed, it continues on its path, unaltered, unaware of what haunts you.

Even as life goes on, even as you keep living, you curse the day you were born. Life is nothing without him. You had bonded yourself to him in such a way that you cannot live without his presence.

You are his.

Forever and ever, always and eternally, you belong to him. Irreversable, and unbelievably his. Your mind, your body, your soul. He owned everything that made you you—he controlled every fiber of your being, to the point where now, you do not know what to do.

He is dead.

You still refuse to believe it. Your fingers ache for the familar feel of his skin; your lips acutely note the absence of his own.

You are numb to the world. You know your head rests on the wall behind you, yet the brick gives you no resistance. You are falling, falling through space and time and eternity, and you are hoping for an end to the madness. You wish for it. You pray for it. You just want to die. But they won't let you, will they?

As a testament to your grief and pain, the Dementors haven't been near your cell in days. They avoid it like the plague; your heartache causes them pain, and you relish that—if only they could feel a tiny portion of your sorrow. If they could only touch the top of your searing agony.

You bleed to know you're alive. You watch the red blood swell to the surface of your skin, and you relish the warmth it brings—you have been without warmth for years. You have been without meaning for years.

You have essentially been without life since That Day.

It doesn't matter that you can't remember the date, or even the year, but That Day has been imprinted onto you heart and mind and soul since. You fumble over the hazy memories, trying to make sense of it all. Would it have matter if you went with him, hiding in the shadows? Or would you too have died, your body just an empty shell to be burned?

Death would have been better, you think. You could escape this endless torture, this unforgiving pain.

And then you feel a tingling on your arm. An old cut, you think, festering in the dank wetness of the prison. A reminder of your failure. Of your weakness.

You lift your head from the solid wall behind you. You are tired, and sick, and limp, yet you move carefully, trying to move just enough to see your arm.

It's there. Your Dark Mark. You gently trace the curve of yout forearm with your other hand, touching the skull as if it were sacred.

It's glowing.

He has returned.


	6. Fears

**A/N: Wow, another chapter already? I know, I know. Despite him being _very_ overdone, I decieded to do Sirius, while he's running away. I think it's very interesting, and I really liked how this turned out. **

**And I'm thinking of doing Orion Black, Sirius' father, next. What do you think?**

**And if you can find the reference to a previous chapter, you get a cookie! :)**

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_Sirius Black_

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Fears

_A Black fears nothing and no one._

The darkness of midnight envelops the house in sleep. Shadows reach across the floors of Number Five, Grimmuald Place, their fingers brushing against tapestries, and old, dusty bookshelves. Cobwebs hang, catching the light of the moon and twinkling in the blackness. It's quiet. The only noise heard is the gentle whisper of wind that flutters the curtains. Someone has left the parlor window open. There will be consequences for that, but not tonight. Tonight there is peace, and there is silence. The pictures hang limp, their occupants either absent or asleep themselves. Nothing stirs.

At least, not until a creak is heard upon the stairs. Someone is coming. He tries to be silent, to keep the peace of the night, but his every movement disturbs the seemingly frozen vision of calm. He knows which steps makes the most noise, and he avoids them, but the sounds are still heard. He knows he must skip the third step down, and that is he doesn't stand _exactly _right on the seventh step he will wake the entire household. And he must stay to the left on the bottom step. It's broken, and the last thing he needs is to be stuck in the staircase come morning. He needs to be gone by first light.

The creeping continues through the hallway, past the kitchen, near the parlor. He hesitates at the threshold. One thing is all he wants. In and out. And then he'll be gone forever.

He goes into the room slowly. While he knew every creak and snap that the stairs made, this room is alien and strange to him. He has no idea which board underfoot will alert everyone to his presence.

He crosses the parlor, careful and scared.

And then it's in front of him.

The tapestry.

And he sees his name, shining, and his face grinning back at him. He knows what his fate will be. Tomorrow he will be gone, and his name will be burned off of the Black Family Tree. He wonders if anyone will care. He wonders if anyone will mourn his loss.

He doubts it.

Disgusted with his own weakness, he turns around sharply. His book is on the table, resting gently on the edge. He reaches out quickly, and stuffs it in his bag. It is done. He must leave.

Again he makes the perilous journey across the parlor. Again, there is no noise.

Freedom lies beyond that door. Just a few more steps, he knows, and then—

"Master? Where is you going?"

He winces as the words drift across the hallway.

"Shut up," he hisses quietly. "Just shut up for one minute and go to bed!"

Kreacher's eyes meet his own. They are wide and angry and accusatory. "As my Master wishes," he murmurs before falling silent. For one second longer he looks at Sirius standing there. He knows he must seem ridiculous, holding a large bag in one hand and in the other a book on magic. There are bags under his eyes, he knows, and his hair is unkept. He watches Kreacher go back up the stairs. The house-elf's mouth is shut as if someone had sewn it that way. Kreacher's eyes, though, stay on Sirius.

Shaking his head to clear it, he turns back towards the door. He reaches out for the doorknob, his way to freedom—

—and Kreacher screams for help.

_Damn._

Sirius was never good at giving orders; somehow he always gave the little weasle a loophole. Now was no exception.

He runs. In the background he can hear his mother screaming, and his father cursing. He's already across the street, now, so it doesn't matter. If he can only get to the park, he can Disapperate, and he'll be gone—

He hears his father shouting. "Stupid ingrate! Get back here, you bastard!" And he feels the graze of something against the back of his head. It burns. And a crash, shattering glass all around him, why isn't he using his wand . . . ?

Doesn't matter. Run, Sirius, go. His fingers search his scalp, and they come back sticky and wet with fresh blood. He can still hear the screaming, and then the shouts of his father calling for his wand. He can hear the man behind him, hear his breath, the heavy footfalls of a man whose never had to work a day in his life.

And he can hear Regulus, probably still in the house. He's shouting at his father, yelling encouragement. "Get him!" he's shouting, "Get him good!"

And then the _whoosh!_ of a wand landing in Orion Black's hands. And it's being raised, poised at Sirius, ready to hurt, to maim, to kill.

He's in the park. He's there. He's free. He turns, looks at his father.

He swears. And then he's gone, forever away from this family.

_A Black fears nothing and no one._

Except, perhaps, another Black.


	7. Fall From Grace

**A/N: Here is Orion Black, Sirius and Regulus' father. This is set when he was about twenty, before he married Walburga. All the names of family members, their relationships to Orion and etc. are from the Harry Potter Lexicon, where there is a Black Family Tree JKR herself wrote. That is what I'm using for all dates and ages as well. (Abraxas really is the name of a member of the Malfoy Family. He was Draco's grandfather. _His_ father's name, however, I just made.)**

**IMPORTANT NOTE: I wrote this using the assumption that in the Wizarding World, they used similar, yet different, ways of "presenting" daugthers to the world as potential wives. I was also assuming that the members of the Black Family were prominent figures not only in society, but governement as well, and that they had since retired from the posistions of power that they once held. Any other things, I just completely made up. **

**Disclaimer: JKR owns all. I'm just playing in her snadbox. :)**

**A big thanks to **Permanent Rose **who helps me with writer's block :) Also, this chapter is dedicated to **Likewow5556**, who gave me a review a while ago, suggesting that I do Orion Black when Sirius ran away. Since I did do that scene, only with Sirius as the main character, I decided to do Orion Black in his own scene. Enjoy! :) **

* * *

_Orion Black_

* * *

Fall From Grace

"I won't do it," I said firmly.

"For the love of Merlin," sighed my mother, completely exasperated. "Just _listen, _for once in your life!"

My father grunted in agreement. His eyes swept over the small, cramped room. Ever since he had lost his gold in gambling, the rest of the Black family turned their backs on us. His disgust and disappointment was evident in his silence. It was rare that Mother did the talking for our family, but today, everyone would bend to her words. My second cousin Walburga Black was turning sixteen, and her father was looking for a husband for her. A pureblood. Preferably a Black.

And my mother had arranged for us to go. Or, more specifically, me.

"Look," Mother continued, "This must go smoothly. Either you shall marry Walburga, or some Malfoy will. Is that what you want? _Is it_? Because Thaddcus will surely thrust his son in front of her, mark my words. And his son will marry Walburga, and we shall be forgotten."

"Abraxas," Father said.

Mother turned sharply. "What was that, Arcturus?"

"Abraxas Malfoy," Father said loudly, standing to tower over my mother. She flinched back, her shoulder coming up with her arm to cover her face. My father was sending a message that would not be misinterpreted: He was still Master of this house, and his wife needed to be reminded. "Thaddcus' son is Abraxas. He is about the same age as Lucretia."

My sister smirked from her seat at the window. She had not said a word while our parents plotted to marry me off to a second cousin that neither of us had seen since her birth. Lucretia ran her fingers through her luscious black hair, and, at the perfect pause in conversation said sadly, "And when will there be a wedding for me?"

"Darling!" cried my mother, flinging herself to Lucretia. "Darling, do you wish to leave me so soon?"

My sister sighed softly. "Of course not, Mother," she cooed, "But who else shall bring this family back into the intimate circle of Blacks if I do not? Cousin Walburga has brothers, does she not? I could marry one of them." The corners of her lips twitched in pleasure at the thought. Cousin Walburga's branch of Blacks were the most wealthy, and the most powerful. To marry Lucretia into their part of our family would be our salvation from poverty and isolation. I felt instant relief. Lucretia would have more chance to raise out family with a marriage to a son of Pollux than I would with a marriage to his only daughter.

"No," my father growled. "Absolutely not! No daughter of mine shall marry a son of Pollux!"

"Besides," my mother said quickly, "They will not come of age for a few more years." She paused, letting my sister pout. "And they are not inheriting Grimmauld Place."

"What?" I shot up out of my seat, feeling as though a ton of bricks had been dumped on my head. Pollux's sons not inheriting Grimmauld? It was the center of activity, the place of meetings and schemes and plots, and, contrary to public belief, where all the important decisions were made for the Wizarding World. Many thought that the Minister ran things, but the truth was that the Blacks did. We worked at the Ministry, we were Aurors, we were the ones that made the final decision.

"Then who?"

My mother turned to me, her eyes meeting mine. "Walburga."

Lucretia dropped her tea, shattering the china cup she had used. "Walburga? Little Cousin _Walburga_? Why?" she wailed, "Why not the sons? _Why_?"

"Because," Father said, "He is afraid of his own sons. He thinks they will turn on him, as he turned on his own father. He's leaving it to Walburga because he trusts her." He turned to me. "And he will want to trust her husband."

Mother took my hand in hers. "You are our greatest hope," she whispered.

I turned to look at my older sister. Lucretia shrugged, as if to say _What choice to do you have?_

"Fine," I said. "So when is this party?"

* * *

"Orion Black, son of Acrturus Black and Melania MacMillan Black. Acrturus Black, son of Sirius Black and Hesper Gamp." The servant turned to us. "Master is over there," he pointed. My father nodded quickly, and grabbed my arm.

"This is our chance," he hissed into my ear as we approached my father's cousin and his daughter. "Don't screw it up."

I looked at the two people in front of us. The man was about a decade younger than my father. _He must be Cousin Pollux,_ I thought as we came closer. He was tall, and had a thick mane of black hair that reminded me of my sister's. He also wore a beard, something my own father refused to do, saying that he made him look less respectable. I guess if you're the head of the most wealthy and powerful Black Family branch, you could look like a ruffian and get away with it. My mother had said Cousin Pollux was handsome, but all that I could say was that he looked strong.

His daughter was something else, though. She was clearly no beauty, and from what information my mother had gleaned through the grapevine, she had no interest in books. Her eyes were sharp, however, and they spotted us before we could announce ourselves. She glanced at her father, and turned gracefully, her skirts rustling around her.

"Hello," she said. "You must be family, then."

It wasn't phrased like a question, so I remained silent. The smile on her fave twitched, and I started. "Orion Black," I said with a slight bow.

She curtsied.

The man beside her—Cousin Pollux—said proudly, "This is my daughter Walburga." Although we had been introduced to the room in general, Pollux could not ignore me or my father. He must make a private, and formal, introduction as Black Family etiquette required. The others around Walburga and Pollux disappeared, leaving a small cluster of Blacks to speak of alliances and marriages.

"My son is very cunning," my father told Cousin Pollux. He lowered his voice. "And, it seems, the only Black man her age. We both know we like to keep it in the family."

"He is a few years older," Pollux observed. Walburga and I were silent. "And yes, they are the only two in this generation that would probably marry. But," he continued, "The Potters have sent a boy, and the Bones, and the Malfoys—"

"Ha!" My father spat. "The Malfoys are gold diggers. I doubt they are even purebloods as they claim."

"Nonetheless, I could not deny them the chance. And the Crabbes sent my wife's second cousin's son." Pollux waited paiently for my father's reply.

"A Crabbe? But Irma's a Crabbe! They do not think to marry into the Blacks _again_," Father snarled.

"They are ambious. And he is related as much to Walburga as your own son is. What is your name again?" Pollux had turned to me suddenly.

"Orion Black, Cousin Pollux," I said, reminding myself to sound strong and to give a slight nodd of the head to show respect. To show weakness would be a disaster, as would a sign of disrespect.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "How long has it been since the last time we married a Black to a Black, Arcturus?"

My father met Pollux's eyes. "Far too long," he said.

Pollux turned back to Walburga and I. "Go dance," he instructed. "Cousin Arcturus and I need to talk."

Walburga made to move away from me, but her father surprised her when he comanded, "With Orion."

She stiffened, but complied. She kept herself away from me, holding her body awkardly so as to not touch any part of me. As we danced, and I twirled her around the room, she watched out fathers. When Pollux laughed and gestured for wine for both him and my father, we knew.

Walburga turned to me, and she let her shoulders slump. "Our fate is sealed," she whispered, a tinge of surprise in her voice. I wondered who had caught her fancy. I wondered which family would rage when they learned that the reason they would not join the ranks of the Black Family was because they had intermarried for the first time in generations.

Walburga glared at me for a minute, and said, "You will have no choice."

"No," I agreed, "It seems our futures are in others' hands."

After a moment of silence, she leaned forward, and said, "I didn't think he'd let me marry you. I thought that with the way your family fell from grace that he would want me to marry a Potter, or Malfoy, or Crabbe. But I convinced him. I told him that I needed to marry a Black, and that you were my only choice. I want to rule this family. I want to be the greatest Black woman ever known to history. And I needed to marry a Black. I could not marry anywhere else." She smiled at me, a black widow spider grinning at the fly caught in its web. "We will be very happy together, I think."

And here I was, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Walburga would have been a friend.


	8. Givers of Gold

**A/N: And here is the next chapter! It took a little longer than expected, but I hope it's worth the wait! So this is Sirius' uncle, who got burned off the Black Family Tree because "he gave gold to his runaway nephew." Sirius, I presumed. So I thought that I would do a piece on him, and the incident where Sirius get this money. Read and review!**

**Disclaimer: JKR I am not.**

* * *

_Alphard Black_

* * *

Givers of Gold

You lean back in your chair, comfortable in the silence of your rooms. A book lies on the table in front of you, and you smooth out the wrinkles in yesterday's copy of _The Daily Prophet. _You sigh. The day is too long, and you ache from the worries of your job at the Ministry. You wish that you could somehow avoid your brother-in-law, but it seems that every way you turn, his face is there, sneering. You can't remember a time when you ever liked Orion, but you can remember the vague satisfaction you got when you learned who your sister was marrying.

A nobody.

You grin now, just thinking of it, and clap your hands together in joy. You see your sister's face before you suddenly: the old, withered face that sags with premature age, the wrinkles furrowing her brow. The steel in her eyes is the only thing that she kept from her youth.

You tire of the paper lying on your lap, and you toss it over your shoulder. Alastor catches it in his mouth, thinking you want to play. "Go away, you stupid dog!" you yell, listening carefully for the tell-tale signs that the dog has left. The jingle of his collar provide adequate proof.

Running one hand through your hair so that it stands on end, you stand. "Time for bed, I think," you announce to the empty room. Merlin, you need to make some friends. Or get a mistress. Something. You're not sure how many more lonely nights you can take.

After all, this silence is nothing like the nights of your childhood, which were always filled with screams of children, and the cackling of the fire, and the low voices that carried over from your father's study. You wonder how much has changed at Grimmauld Place. It's been years since you visited your sister and her family. Years since you've seen your childhood home.

There is a knocking at the door.

"Damn," you hiss as you climb over the couch. "Who could that be?" Alastor barks quickly, sitting up and wagging his tail. "I need to stop talking to myself," you mutter. You've reached the door. Looking out to see who is on the other side of the wood, you are surprised to see your nephew. You throw open the door.

"Sirius!"

The sixteen year old grins sheepishly. "Hello, Uncle," he replies. "Could—do you think that I could stay here for a bit?"

You rub the stubble on your chin. "Now, why would you need to stay here? You've got a fine home at Grimmauld Place."

Sirius turns his face away from yours, and refuses to meet your eyes. He shuffles his feet. You sigh. "A fight _again_?" you ask as gently as you can. Merlin knows you aren't the paternal type—just one of the reasons you never married and never had children. You couldn't deal with it. You just weren't capable.

"Merlin, Sirius," you growl when he nods in answer. "And what do you expect me to do? Keep you here for a few days until someone comes looking for you? I won't do it again, damn it, I won't! I'm tired of hiding you, of waiting for a break in the arguments. I've got a job, and work, and . . . " you trail off quickly, realizing how pathetic it sounds.

Sirius lifts his face, the stubborn arrogant teenaged look replaced with one that is desperate and scared. "Please, Uncle," he pleads quietly. "Just for tonight. Then I'll be off. I swear on Grandfather Sirius' ghost and grave." It is a solemn oath in the Black Family, to swear on the patriarch's soul. Sacred, even. You have no choice.

"Only because I like you," you say. "Don't think I'd do this for just anybody, especially those cousins of yours."

Sirius' face breaks into a large grin. "Thank you, Uncle, thank you! You won't regret this!"

"Come on, then," you say gruffly. "Let's get you situated. I think there might be an extra set of sheets upstairs."

Obediently, Sirius follows you, rather like Alastor does when he is feeling particularly happy with you.

You wave your wand, setting up the bed, and stare at your nephew. "Well?" you ask.

Sirius just shakes his head. "Thank you," he repeats from earlier. He seems so happy with this small act of kindness, but why wouldn't he be? You remember what it was like being a younger brother to the cruel Walburga, and you doubt motherhood had softened her temper or her hand.

"Just—have a good night, alright?" you mumble after a few moments of silence.

"Yes. Yes, good night." Sirius puts his single bag down on the side table. "Good night."

* * *

You make sure to leave a small pouch in his bag the next morning. It doesn't have a lot of money—you are short on gold yourself. But it's enough. Enough for a few meals, and a night or two at an inn. Enough to get him away. Because you know, in the bottom of your heart, that someone deserves to be free from this family. And you can't think of a better candidate than young Sirius.

So you will do what you can. You will give him gold, and you will lie when Orion or Walburga or even Regulus come to retrieve him. You will let him go, to find his own place in the world, to make a name for himself that is not tied eternally with the Black Family.

Sirius is so much like you. And you wish there had been a kind uncle to give you gold and a place to stay.

Because Merlin knows you could have used it.

And, when the time comes, he will owe you. And maybe, just maybe, you too will find the freedom.


End file.
